


Garland Moon

by 0shadow_panther0, creamycat (0shadow_panther0)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0, https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/creamycat
Summary: (Working title: Hot Priest Summer)During the summer months, Seteth loses a few layers, Byleth tries a new uniform, and both are very interested.(From Courage, My Love's NSFW side zine, The Undone & the Divine.)
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	Garland Moon

The heat is _insufferable_. Even Seteth, whose tolerance of extremes far surpasses the average human’s, can barely stand to brave the outdoors for more than an hour, the muggy heat invading even the shade.

He leans back in his chair and tugs at his collar, hyper-aware of the way sweat-sodden fabric clings to his back. Not even his office is safe from the heat. He feels, quite frankly, disgusting.

Seteth caves.

He undoes the belt around his waist and pulls off his gauntlets, shedding his robes and baring the loose, white shirt beneath it, then undoes the buttons until the shirt is open down to his sternum.

The air against his chest is nearly enough to make him groan with relief, slumping back in his chair. He runs a hand through the sweat-mussed mess of his hair with an absentminded wish for a hair-tie, pointed ears be damned.

A light knock on his door jolts him back to alertness, and he calls, “Come in,” on reflex. He winces, straightening his posture and adjusting his sleeves in a last-ditch attempt to fix his appearance.

“Seteth,” an all-too familiar voice says, and Byleth steps into his office. She pauses when she sees him, face impassive. “You look… disheveled.”

“I—my appearance is nothing to be concerned about,” he manages, attributing the rising heat of his face to the open door. “Did you need something, Professor?”

Byleth, he notes (with some emotion he doesn’t care to categorize), has taken to wearing the summer uniform typically reserved for students—white blouse, high-waisted cream skirt, knee high boots. It doesn’t show anymore than her usual fare—less, actually, considering the high neckline—but he feels his face get warmer whenever he catches sight of her.

His eyes flicker down. Her thumb skims the hem of her skirt, the fabric taut against her hips and thighs. She shifts, cocking her hip and resting her weight on one leg, and he wrenches his eyes back up to meet her gaze.

Her eyebrow rises a fraction and a fresh wave of shame rushes over Seteth more sharply than a bucket of ice water. His cheeks can’t seem to decide whether to go red or drain of blood completely.

“Just about this month’s allowance,” she says, calm, mild, like she hadn’t just caught him staring, “since so many students have transferred in. I was hoping to negotiate a higher grant. It’s difficult to maintain so much weaponry when the budget was made for a smaller class.”

“Fine,” he replies shortly. “I will take that into account for next month. If that is all?”

“That’s all,” she says. Her expression is as unreadable as ever. “Thank you for your time.”

She bows shallowly as she leaves, the click of door shutting behind her sounding hollowly in his office.

His head drops forward, his forehead meeting the wood of his desk with a dull thunk. He’s too old for this. He _should_ be too old for this.

The heat must be getting to him.

* * *

Seteth presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. His mind is too distracted for paperwork and he’s in no state to try to sleep. Perhaps a turn about the grounds will do him some good.

With new resolve, he pushes his chair back and carefully reassembles his shirt, tugging down the sleeves and buttoning it up to his throat. Even though the air is significantly cooler, the heat trapped in the stones still radiates an uncomfortable warmth— he leaves his robes draped over the back of his chair, his gauntlets put away in the drawers of his desk.

Outside, the air is more tolerable than his office, if barely, and his patrol is more leisurely than usual. He ambles down the path, past the fishing pond and up towards the washrooms.

He’s making his way towards the cathedral when a faint, metallic clang catches his attention, and he straightens his back, already preparing his lecture for whatever student is past curfew.

Seteth pushes past the training ground gates, frowning intensely enough that even the most rebellious student would be cowed—and freezes.

It’s the professor—because of course it is—swinging at a training dummy with whirlwind force. She’s still dressed in the summer uniform, her skirt riding scandalously high as she widens her stance to deliver an overhead blow to the dummy.

She stops as soon as she notices him, the grinding of the doors interrupting the nighttime ambience like the crack of a whip.

“Seteth,” she greets, raking back her sweat-dampened hair with a sweep of her fingers. “Can I help you?”

Consciously, he draws himself up, folding his hands at the small of his back. “No, I’m simply making some rounds,” he replies. “You’re up rather late.”

“It’s cooler at night,” she says plainly.

Her skirt rides up along the side, almost to her hip, and she smooths it down absentmindedly. Sweat plasters her shirt to her skin, the cloth barely transparent where it clings to her chest.

His face is flushed in a way he can no longer blame on the summer heat.

“You’re still wearing the student’s uniform,” he says, more snappishly than he means to.

Her expression doesn’t change in the slightest, but there’s something amused in the tilt of her head. “‘Cooler’ does not mean ‘cold.’” A beat passes. “Does it offend you that much?”

Offended is not the word for the heat blooms in his chest when he looks at her, but there is absolutely no possible way for him to convey that— no way without revealing himself to be some sort of degenerate old man who’s lusting over a woman he’s supposed to be suspicious of.

She steps forward, into his space, and his hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping her hip, but he doesn’t push her away. His hand is large enough— and her skirt short enough— that the edge of his palm meets warm skin instead of fabric.

He swallows.

Her gaze hasn't left his face. The blue of her eyes deepens in the darkness, her hair taking a silvery cast from the moonlight that filters into the arena. She’s beautiful like this, he thinks hazily.

“Well?” she says expectantly. Another half-step—she’s close enough that a deep breath would make her chest brush against his.

“Professor—” he starts.

The corner of her mouth quirks into a smile, and Seteth’s resolve crumbles.

He draws her close, and she tilts her head up obligingly as he ducks down to kiss her.

He can feel the curve of her smile against his mouth, her hands reaching to tangle in his hair. He sucks in a sharp breath as her nails scrape scalp, tugging firmly enough to pull his head back.

“Eager,” she murmurs, and he flushes.

“I—” Seteth stammers, hands flexing restlessly against her hips.

“I’m not complaining,” she says. Her fingers skim the line of his collar, and he shivers like a winter chill had seeped into his bones.

“Your office?” she suggests, and he nearly blanches at the thought.

“No,” he says, a little too quickly. “My personal quarters—please.”

She looks more amused than anything as she nods her assent.

He leads her back to his room, his steps a little too quick to be construed as calm, and even past curfew he can’t help but imagine running into someone.

When his door swings shut behind them he wastes no time twisting the lock in place, the click echoing in his head like the toll of a bell. The curve of Byleth’s smile in his peripherals yanks his attention towards her as she leans against the small desk in the corner of his room.

“It’s tidy,” she observes, expression so inscrutable that he thinks he might have imagined her smile.

“...I don’t spend much time here,” Seteth replies.

She hums, eyes flickering to his bed, lingering for a deliberate moment before shifting back to him.

He swallows.

She pushes off his desk and closes the distance between them in two long strides— unlike at the training grounds, this time he doesn’t hesitate to meet her as she tilts her head up for a kiss.

He trembles as her fingers ghost over his jaw, down the line of his throat. She studies him intently as she pulls away, like she’s cataloguing his reactions, carefully committing them to memory. The intensity of her gaze is enough to make him flush.

Seteth’s breath catches as she leans forward to press her lips to the hollow of his throat, helpless to stop the sharp noise that escapes him when her teeth graze the delicate skin.

Her fingers begin to undo the buttons of his shirt, her mouth mapping out every new inch of skin as it's exposed, and—

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Cautiously, slowly, he sets them at her waist, smoothing his palm down the fabric of her skirt.

“You can touch more if you want,” Byleth murmurs, her lips burning against his collarbone, and he swallows, daring his hands to inch down to the bare skin of her thighs.

Her legs are strong, thick with muscle, and he can feel the barely-there shiver that ripples across her skin as his calloused fingertips drag across her thigh, then further back, where the tensed line of her hamstring meets the soft curve of her rear.

As if in retaliation for provoking a reaction out of her, Byleth digs her teeth into his collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark, to make him gasp.

She laps at the mark, the trail her tongue leaves scalding hot at first—then cold as her breath fans against his damp skin.

“Professor,” he rasps, fingers digging into the firm flesh of her thighs.

He catches the barest hint of a smile on her lips before she ducks her head down, littering his throat with reddened marks—high enough that, even with his collar fully buttoned, one hasty move would expose them to the world.

He’s in no position to protest, though, as he makes a strangled sound as she shifts, pressing her knee against his crotch.

Byleth glances up at him, apparently pleased, and repeats the motion, firmer this time. A rough moan escapes his throat as the rest of him is occupied with trying to prevent himself from rutting against her leg like a base animal.

One of her hands drifts down his stomach, toying with the button of his trousers, her other hand cupping his cheek, tilting his head so he meets her gaze.

All at once she stops, staring up at him with heady intent, waiting.

Seteth squeezes his eyes shut. “ _Please_.”

He feels more than hears the low huff of her laughter— doesn’t need to open his eyes to know she’s smiling.

“Good boy,” she murmurs like a promise.

All at once, the warmth and pressure of her touch disappears, and he blinks, once, twice, before his mind parses that Byleth is still in front of him, leaning over—

And then she kicks off her smallclothes from under her skirt and he’s not thinking much at all.

She tugs the front of his shirt lightly as she steps back and he follows like a leashed dog until the backs of her legs hit his bed and she sits.

She undoes the fastenings of his trousers with little fanfare, dragging them down his thighs, and if he had any more presence of mind he might have been embarrassed by how eagerly he complies, fumbling with his boots and smallclothes like an inexperienced schoolboy.

When he’s finally, finally naked save for his half-buttoned shirt, Byleth smiles again, a tiny, self-satisfied thing, and falls back, drawing her legs up. Her skirt bunches around her hips, exposing soft curve of inner thighs, and between them—

“Well?” she prompts. One of her hands drifts down between her thighs, lazily circling her slit. Her fingers come away glistening, and Seteth’s heart beats a thunderous tattoo in his throat.

“Of course,” he rasps, for lack of anything better to say.

He runs a hand over her calf, gently urging her legs apart, and she obliges readily. His teeth dig into his bottom lip as he presses two fingers against her slick. They slide in easily, Byleth letting her head fall back with a pleased sigh, and he draws out another low moan from her, circling her clit with his thumb.

“More,” she urges. She glances up at him, eyes dark.

Seteth takes an unsteady breath, withdrawing his hand and shifting so he stands between her parted legs, rubbing the head of his cock against her slit. He enters her slowly, his hands settling on her hips—more to hold himself steady than anything else. She’s hot and slick and it’s all he can do to gather the last vestiges of his restraint to not mindlessly buck into her.

Byleth seems to have other ideas, grabbing his shirt and pulling until he follows, his hands on either side of her shoulders and bracing a knee on the edge of the bed.

“You’re too stiff,” she says, almost a purr. He could get drunk on her voice along, he thinks.

She cants her hips up and Seteth bites back a startled moan, his own snapping to meet hers before he can stop himself.

“Go on,” she teases, and he can’t bring himself to deny her.

He rocks into her, slowly at first, falling into an unpracticed rhythm. He quickens as Byleth makes her own enthusiasm known, tiny noises escaping her mouth when he thrusts deep enough that their hips are flush against each other.

She pulls him down for another kiss, her fingers tangled roughly in his hair, the pressure of her lips against his dizzying.

“Seteth,” she gasps. Her grip on his hair tightens and he groans, burying his face in her shoulder.

His pace reaches a desperate fever, spurred on by Byleth’s soft moans. She hooks her legs around his waist, the leather of her boots cool and smooth against his skin.

“C— close,” he manages, hips stuttering. “Byleth—”

“It’s fine,” she murmurs hazily. “I’m—”

She cuts off with a shudder, tightening around him as she peaks. Seteth buries himself to the hilt as he follows her over the edge, pulled close by her legs around his waist, and Byleth greedily swallows his moans with an open-mouthed kiss.

He resists the urge to collapse on top of her, pushing himself away so he can sprawl on his bed, breathless, and watches as Byleth turns onto her side to face him, satisfaction rolling off of her in waves.

“That was nice,” she says simply, pressing her lips to his brow. It’s chaste, surprisingly gentle, and Seteth finds his eyes drifting shut as he soaks in her warmth.

* * *

Byleth is gone before he wakes in the morning, but he isn’t bereft of her presence for long. He spots her at the dining hall, quietly conversing with one of her students. She’s still wearing the summer uniform— a given, since the temperature hasn’t dropped the slightest since the previous day, but—

There are creases in her skirt along her hips, jarringly obvious compared to the clean-pressed uniforms of the students around her.

His face warms rapidly, cheeks flushing red, and that is the exact moment Byleth makes eye contact with him.

She smiles, holding a finger to her lips, and Seteth turns right around and flees to the safety of his office.

The heat, he decides, is _insufferable_.


End file.
